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oom, doc's room upstairs, for kate
Even after ten years, not much has really changed about Doc's room. In the month since he's been back, he's moved a few things here and there, changed the sheets and blankets - no need for winter cover when it's a warm summer season, and so on - and added a good deal more books.
As Doc opens the room, he steps aside to let Kate in ahead of him. She's spent several nights here as well, over the last month. It's familiar territory.
Safe.
There's a few more shreds of that silk scarf on the bed, along with several other various cat toys that have been dragged out of theridiculously enormous basket near the couch and strewn over the cushion.
The desk is covered with a ledger and the pages full of his handwriting, neat and precise. A book of Shakespeare is on the bed, closed with a book marking a particular chapter he left off on.
He moves to open the windows, to let the cool summer night's air in, after he's shut and locked the door.
As Doc opens the room, he steps aside to let Kate in ahead of him. She's spent several nights here as well, over the last month. It's familiar territory.
Safe.
There's a few more shreds of that silk scarf on the bed, along with several other various cat toys that have been dragged out of the
The desk is covered with a ledger and the pages full of his handwriting, neat and precise. A book of Shakespeare is on the bed, closed with a book marking a particular chapter he left off on.
He moves to open the windows, to let the cool summer night's air in, after he's shut and locked the door.
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Not like he doesn't feed them treats, or anything. Nope, not at all.
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"Really, Doc. Such shenanigans from a man of four-and-thirty. It's rather unbecomin' of you."
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"Promise I'll tone down 'such shenanigans' in the future, wouldn't do t'ruin my image, now."
He waits until she's turned her gaze away from him once more, before silently slipping across the room and sneaking up behind her - all she gets as a warning is a faint rush of air before he's got his arms around her in a bear hug from behind, a wicked cackle leaving his throat.
"Gotcha."
Shenanigans? What shenanigans?
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She gasps and lets out a shrieking sort of laugh. Her arms come up around his own, and she again tips her head back to look at him.
"Oh, y'have an image now?" she breathes, her heartbeat hammering through her ribs. "Daresay there ain't much y'can do to muck it up; likely folk are thinkin' of the Doc Scurlock as nothin' but an overgrown boy with a penchant for mischief!"
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He slides one hand around her front, to the middle of her stomach so that he can continue undoing those buttons on her shirt.
"Course, that could work t'my advantage. People think I'm just a boy, they ain't got any sense of self-preservation or thoughts t'keep a close eye on me when I decide to be the man, the outlaw..."
His fingers are very careful with those buttons.
Wouldn't do to ruin that fine shirt, after all.
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"You sayin' y'need supervision?" she murmurs, arching one of her eyebrows.
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A beat.
"Like now."
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Her eyes never leave his face for an instant, though.
Times like these make it so hard when she wants nothing more but to reach up and kiss him until his head spins, just so he can feel what it's like when his voice slips into that husky southern accent, and his rough, calloused hands are moving over her body. But every time she thinks she's going to crack, something stills her, and fear replaces her arousal.
She drops her chin, lowering her gaze to his collarbone, and slowly twists around in his embrace until they're facing each other. Letting her teeth gently wander from his shoulder to the hollow of his neck, following the line of his collarbone, she ghosts her fingertips down his bare abdomen, and reaches around to undo the snap of his britches.
"Y'know what I need, Doc?"
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He wants nothing more than to kiss her - not just in times like this, but all the time - but each time she's tried and frozen up, he's changed course and backed away, not wanting to drag up fears and bad memories to ruin a good moment.
It's just so damn difficult sometimes.
Doc exhales as her teeth scrape over his neck, shivering as she hits his collarbone.
"Whas'it y'need, darlin'?"
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The button comes undone with a soft noise, and she slips her hands under his waistband. She tips her head back to nuzzle up under his chin, and then switches to the other side of his throat, mouth on his hot skin. She gets on her tiptoes, close to his ear...
"...For you t'go pour me a glass'a whiskey, an' give me that back rub you promised."
She settles back on her feet, pulling her hands up to his waist. Resting her chin on his breast, she looks up, into his eyes, and beyond the smokey haze of desire tinting her deep blue irises there is a spark, wicked and full of mischief.
Doc's not the only one who can be devious when he wants to be, it would seem.
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He's speechless.
Absolutely speechless.
His eyebrows quirk as he shakes his head, grin pulling at his mouth, then he moves to the bookshelf to grab the bottle of whiskey off the top and uncork the mouth. He stays quiet - his back half-turned - as he pours a measure of liquor into the glass.
He glances over at her.
And then raises the glass to his lips, and downs the alcohol with a toss of his head.
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She bends down and begins searching in one of the bottom drawers for a pair of his pajama pants, when noises from the drawer he had pulled open earlier catch her attention.
"...What in blazes...?"
One of the kittens has somehow managed to get himself up inside, and is attacking yet another one of Doc's neck rags.
"Doc, y'better--"
Her words fall short when she reaches in to grab the tyrant, and catches sight of a wad of hundred dollar bills spilling out from the handkerchief instead.
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The second kitten pops his head up from among the socks, mewling pathetically, while the first merely blinks at Kate and attempts to look Innocent.
(It's very convincing, and probably because of the eyes he's giving her.)
Doc, after pouring the second glass of whiskey, glances over as he re-corks the top.
"I'd better, what?"
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She turns her head over her shoulder to look at him, her expression reading 'you'd better explain.'
"Where'd y'git all this?"
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He glances down, before setting down the whiskey glass.
"I did some doctorin' for a patron here, years back..."
He swallows down a bitter taste of guilt.
You needed the money.
"...Ramon."
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"Ramon Salazar?"
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"Oh."
She drops her focus away from his face, back to the money in her hand, and then back to the dresser (where the kittens seem very interested in what's happening).
Nodding slightly, she hands him the stack of money.
"Y'might wanna move these someplace more safe, or keep your drawers closed, 'fore your boys tear up your small fortune," she murmurs, keeping her eyes downcast the entire time.
She picks up the glass of whiskey, and move past him, forgetting about the pajamas.
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He slides the drawer closed, but keeps his hands on the dresser, head bowed.
He doesn't speak, for a few minutes. He doesn't move, just breathes.
"I needed the money."
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"Y'ain't gonna burn good money," she tells him, voice quiet.
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Doc shakes his head (and for a moment all he can see is the scene Bill relayed to him, Kate with her gun against Ramon's guts, pinned to the wall and fighting for air) then glances at her.
There's something in his eyes - not disgust or hatred or anger, just something.
Something that shouldn't be there, especially since it's directed inward - it was business, not pleasure.
You still got your hands dirty.
"He ain't layin' a hand on you, or on Bill. Even if it's the last thing I do. He ain't."
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She doesn't quite make it far enough to look at him before she turns back.
"It's jus' money; lord knows he don't need it."
It's just money.
'I needed the money.'
He's a doctor. It was just a job.
Still, her stomach is twisted in knots.
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Doc swallows down the comment and moves into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he flicks the tap on and begins to wash his hands.
He feels dirty, as he rubs a soapy lather across his palms, trying to rid himself of non-existent bloodstains.
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Her glass is quite nearly empty when she notices he's taking longer than he should. She first turns to look into the bathroom, and then turns, setting her glass down on the dresser as she passes.
(The kittens have moved on to a new mouse toy in the meantime.)
She slowly steps up behind him, lightly placing her hands on his biceps as he patiently scrubs away at his skin. She ghosts her touch down his arms, slowly sliding her hands down, down, until her palms are covering his knuckles. His arms are longer than hers, which puts her body into a tight embrace with his.
She closes her eyes and leaves a slow, lingering kiss between his shoulder blades.
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Slowly, he turns the taps off, and shifts to pull their hands up to his chin, ignoring the water droplets that skate down his chest.
"I ain't afraid of gettin' 'em dirty," he explains. "Just gets hard t'live with yourself after so long...when y'ain't got nobody t'tell you that you ain't jus'a sinnah."
Eyes still closed, he brings her knuckles to his lips, kissing each hand softly in turn.
"We ain't just sinnahs. Even if we got dirty hands."
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